


After All The Dust Has Settled

by FickleBiscuits



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Buddy Cops, Coping, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hank and Connor work, Life is beautiful, M/M, Police, Political Fallout, Politics, becoming human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17511245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleBiscuits/pseuds/FickleBiscuits
Summary: “I will be travelling to the nation’s capital tomorrow morning to meet with President Warren and her cabinet of advisers.”Markus’ voice turns steely and serious. “Three days ago I offered Connor a place by my side as counsel and aide, but he refused. When I asked why he told me it was his desire to remain in Detroit...with you.”





	After All The Dust Has Settled

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many thoughts and feelings about this game and fandom. I hope that some of that overwhelming love comes through in this story.  
> This really started when I was taking a look at all of the happy endings out there, settling down, Connor becoming a cop and living happily ever after and I thought: 'What if Connor didn't become a cop?' And the rest, as they say, is history.  
> I do think Hank and Connor are lovely together. The focus of this story is going to be them finding a new balance because of, but outside of, each other. There will be some hard themes and Hank isn't going to get better all at once. But I hope his exploration of self is real.  
> The title is taken from "Too Late To Say Goodbye" by Cage the Elephant. The poem at the beginning provided by the effervescent Olivia.  
> Thank you all for being excellent. I hope you enjoy.  
> <3

 

 

 

> Our city is painted with thoughts and feelings  
>  Walls unkempt and overrun with expression  
>  Made to fit movie screens with their perfection  
>    
>  Our city is lit by lovers and dreamers  
>  They hold hands without caring and kiss in the daylight  
>  Unlike me, they wouldn’t mind who was staring  
>    
>  Our city is a film still in my memory  
>  Growing more valuable with time  
>  The white becoming a little more golden with age  
>    
>  Our city is a privilege to me, a sacred moment  
>  Not a city anymore but a nostalgic pang of laughter and a dull awareness of seconds  
>  Always passing too quickly, like a reservoir that everyone knows will soon be emptied but that is drained anyway  
>    
>  Our city is bookstores and mountains  
>  Dark cars and dim statues  
>  Nightwalkers and busy streets  
>    
>  Our city is happiness and fear and youth and color and reckless and forward and awesome  
>    
>  But maybe Our City  
>    
>  Is just mine.
> 
>  
> 
>     **"Our City"**
> 
> **by Olivia**

 

* * *

  


  They cling to one another in the frigid clarity of morning while above them the softly rising sun burns away the worst of the night’s cloying chill offering a coy wink of warmth. Fists and fingers grasp tight at necks and coats, unwilling to relinquish their fragile hold; at least not until the sting of relieved tears turns to biting ice on wet lashes, wet beard.

  Connor smiles his pure, guileless, smile as Hank fidgets and pulls away in order to rub furiously at his frosted face and frozen eyes. He watches as the old man falls into old habits to cover his embarrassment; curses a blue streak while gritting and chipping at the ice forming on his cheeks.

  “Fucking cold, fucking Detroit, fuckin’ December and motherfucking snow…”

  Connor waits to speak until Hank’s words are spent, along with the bulk of his flustered vitriol. And when he does he says only three words, three simple words that, like everything Connor does, brings Hank’s head up and stops him short.

  Every time.

  “Take me home?”

  Hank’s hands fall to his sides and Connor’s gaze traces the sparking glint of ice in the crinkled corners of Hank’s eyes.

  “Sure, Connor.” He says and smiles with those eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

  The first four days are perfect, are better than perfect. They are flawed and full of arguments and squabbles and misunderstandings and bickering and more happiness than Hank thought was left in the world.

  They fight over stupid, mundane things like the state of the sink, and the food in the fridge. They fight over the amount of alcohol Hank continues to consume, when the laundry should be done, when or if Hank is going to replace the window Connor smashed with more than a flat of cardboard and few strips of duct tape. Which starts a whole other tangential argument.

  But that isn’t all the time, it isn’t even most of the time. And even when it is, it doesn’t matter because they work. Connor is nothing if not single-minded and Hank can be just as stubborn, but he’s a little surprised how easily they fall into a rhythm, the shuffling dance of cohabitation Hank was sure he’d forgotten entirely.

  It’s strange having someone in his space again, someone to care for and someone who cares for him. But he warms to it with remarkable ease, seeks it even, like a morning glory chases the sun. Even if he’ll never admit it out loud.

  He starts cleaning out the garage on the third day, making Connor a little space of his own that isn’t the couch in Hank’s small living room. Connor protests of course, says that Hank doesn’t have to go to all of that trouble for him. But Hank meets the android’s protestation with an firmly furrowed eyebrow and a barked:

  “It’s this or you sleep in the Buick, Connor.” Which effectively cuts off all commentary on the subject and Connor goes to make Hank lunch.

  The space doesn’t turn out to be anything much; a partition and a futon which is more spring than mattress. But it’s private and personal, and when Connor bids him a quiet goodnight that night before slipping out into the garage, Hank can’t help the small flutter of pleasure that hums in the hollow of his chest. He goes to bed and falls asleep contented and thinking that yeah, this could work.

  He never once stops to consider at any point during the next blissful day that happiness is the single commodity in his life which never lasts for long.

 

 

* * *

 

  The buzzer jerks Hank’s head up from where it's bent over the sudsy kitchen sink. His hands are full of black, crusty sponge and a saucepan which could be described with similar adjectives. He’s currently considering whether or not it would be worth tossing the damn thing and starting fresh.

  The buzzer sounds a second time, persistently insistent.

  “Alright, alright!” He yells in the general direction of the front door, letting the sponge and pan disappear beneath the brackish bubbles. He casts about for a dishtowel before remembering he’d shoved the lot of them in the washing machine that morning and a third ring has him scrambling into the living room, wiping his hands dry on the thighs of his sweatpants.

  “I’m coming, keep your damn pants on.” Hank stomps over to the door, flicking the last of the water off his fingers and flings it wide, abuse ready on his lips.

  Hank has a few half-formed ideas about who might be visiting, most involve JW's who haven't learned not to bother him yet. He is not prepared to see Markus: android, pacifist, revolutionary, deviant and leader of free androids everywhere; standing on his front step, hands folded behind his back, a polite smile on his face.

  For a moment Hank’s brain spins without traction, suspended in neutral until his tongue manages to catch in gear and he jerks forward, spitting out the first words that come readily to his tongue.

  “Uh...Connor isn’t here.”

  “I know.” Markus says. “He’s at the precinct speaking with police Captain Fowler. I came here to speak with you.”

  “Well shit.” Hank mutters, but shimmies to one side, holding the door open as Markus steps inside, calm and indomitable. He’s wearing a coat, but it hangs loose and unbuttoned to frame his narrow chest, pressing limply against the thin cotton of his shirt. His hands and head are bare as well, as if to stand in testament to his impermeability, his inhumanity. No human would be outside without them.

  Hank leads his guest to the living room and Markus takes a seat on Hank’s rickety, threadbare couch. Somehow he looks like a king perched on a pauper’s second-hand seat, his back ramrod straight, his elbows resting on his spread knees.

  “I’d offer you something to drink, but I don’t know if you people…” Hank starts to say and then curses, wonders if that’s racist. He thinks some android models are capable of imbibing food and drink, there are food critics after all. But he doesn’t know if that extends to all androids, or if they enjoy it even, or if offering would be considered a faux pas?

  Discomfort is slowly creeping up on him, settling like a heavy mantle over his head and shoulders. It makes Hank want to lash out snappy, waspish.

  “That’s all right.” Markus offers Hank a small placating smile. If Hank’s being honest he finds Markus’ gaze a little unnerving, the shine of pale green and blue, so inhuman and yet so full of the shimmering spark of consciousness from a being Hank hadn't even considered living a week ago.

  “Actually, if I could ‘cut to the chase’, I came to ask you for a favor, Lieutenant Anderson.”

  Hank says nothing, just crosses his arms and waits. And wonders what the fuck someone as important as Markus would want or need from a washed-up cop like him. He watches as Markus’ mouth tightens ever so slightly; a surprisingly human response. It send ripples across the placid veneer of Markus’ serenity, as sweeping in scope as a tidal wave.

  What Hank can’t tell, is if it stems from discomfort. Or annoyance.

  “I understand…” Markus begins, apropos of nothing. “...you mean a great deal to Connor. He has become utterly devoted to you.”

   **_Cold metal against his temple, held by a hand he thought he knew. Doubts and swirling anger, indignant. Tricked by a face he believed could not lie._ **

**_//It’s time for you to decide who you really are...//_ **

_**Connor’s face, honest face, true face, crumbling; resolve** **wavering** **and then cast aside.** _

_**//** **Alright** **!** **Alright** **,...you win//** _

 Something strange unfurls in Hank’s chest, sudden and warm and full of fondness.

 _Devoted_.

  It’s a complicated word. He’s never considered the implications of all Connor’s done for him, _because_ of him...and it’s weird to consider it now, standing under the loaded gun of Markus’ careful scrutiny.

  Hank bows his head to evade the watchful eyes and carefully studies his rug. It’s old and short and patchy, the pattern faded and worn thin by too many feet. Like everything else in this shithole, it’s just a little too old, a little too used. A little too past its prime.

 **** “Can you get to your fucking point?” Hank says, though the curse doesn’t carry its typical chagrin. He’s just tired of feeling wrong-footed and wonders how the fuck Markus seems to know more about his and Connor’s relationship than he does.

  Markus notices Hank’s rising irritation. Of course he does, he’s a motherfucking android, that part’s easy to see: Elevated heart rate, spikes in blood pressure, it all amounts to a hot froth of emotions, bubbling up to spill over the planes of his face. But if Markus notices the unease squirming just beneath the rest, he has the grace not to say anything. He inclines his head, a show of obeisance which somehow doesn’t diminish his proudly regal bearing even a little.

  “I will be travelling to the nation’s capital tomorrow morning to meet with President Warren and her cabinet of advisers. Ideally we'll establish avenues of communication between our peoples. And, if talks are productive, we might accomplish more.”

  Markus’ voice turns steely and serious. “Three days ago I offered Connor a place by my side as counsel and aide, but he refused. When I asked why and he told me it was his desire to remain in Detroit...with you.”

  Hank scoffs. “And you think I can change his mind.” He begins pacing. “That’s fuckin’ rich. I’ve never talked Connor out of anything he didn’t want to do since the day I met him. And I doubt there’s anyone alive, human or android, who could.”

  Markus hums a quiet chuckle, a small, human idiosyncrasy that seems so at odds with his immutable superiority that Hank can actually feel the earth shifting and realigning itself under his feet. He wonders if he’ll ever stop being surprised by androids. Or if maybe he’s still a little bit prejudice.

  “I think you underestimate yourself, Lieutenant Anderson.”  

  Markus sighs then, the sound so weary it makes Hank’s bones ache in sympathy. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, as they say.

  “I know there’s a great deal of good Connor could do here in Detroit.” Markus begins carefully, his tone patient and placating. Already the consummate politician. “But he also has the opportunity to affect change on a world-wide scale, to help, not only our people here in Detroit, but across the world.”

  Markus’ face is solemn, his voice kind while his words gently gut Hank.

  “The only reason he considers keeping himself here is because he believes you would be lost without him. I don’t know if that’s true, but I understand that you seem to care about him a great deal, maybe as much as he has come to care for you.” His gaze is honest and open and fiercely earnest. “If you do care for him Lieutenant, then please, let him become more than he believes he can be.”

  Hank opens his mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, probably something about fuckin’ over dramatic androids. But Markus halts his words with a raised hands, his expression back to its polite placidness as he stands. His body is a study in inhuman grace and fluid motion.

  “Please think about what I’ve said, Lieutenant. I’ll see myself out.”

  Hank lets Markus go. He stares at the empty couch and listens to the soft pad of footsteps, the click of the door closing and then the hollow stillness that’s left behind. Markus’ words ring like echos in that stillness, brutal and cutting and perhaps closer to the truth than Hank wants to think about.

  “Shit.” He says to no one and goes to the kitchen. He pours himself three fingers from the bottle under the sink, tosses it back and the blossoming warmth of the alcohol burrows its way down his throat. Makes him feel better not at all.

  “Shit.” He says to no one and pours another three fingers.

  “Shit.”

 

* * *

 

  Connor returns two hours later, a smile on his face and a near literal bounce in his step.

  Hank watches him happily drying dishes and can feel a fist forming in the pit of his stomach. He tries not to think too heavily about the drum line of Markus' words pounding in his skull. Because the more he thinks about them, the tighter the choking, suffocating curl of fingers around his esophagus becomes.

  “...provided I pass the academy’s examinations, he’d be happy to have me.” Connor turns to glance over his shoulder at Hank, a wide smile splitting his face open.

  “That’s great.” Hank says, trying for sincere.

  The smile on Connor’s face wavers slightly and the android angles his body to face Hank a little more fully. “Hank, are you feeling well?”

  “I’m fuckin’ peachy.” Hank mutters into his water and wishes it was whiskey. But he’d finished off the last of the fifth he’d had under the sink and hadn’t thought to pick up more.

  “You do not look ‘peachy’.” Connor says and sets the plate he’d been drying back onto the rack. The clinking sets Hank’s teeth on edge, sharp like a gunshot.

  “Then why’d you fuckin’ ask?” Hank barks, suddenly irritable and pushes up from the table, stomping to his room and slamming the door behind him. He leans against it, running a hand through his hair. It’s too long. He should have cut it months ago, but it was easier to let it hang, easier to just let it be than to deal with it. That's what he does.

**_//...It’s easier just to kill myself a little every day...//_ **

  “Fuck.”

  “Hank?” Connor’s voice comes muffled from the other side of the door, worried and sorry and sad and guilty and it hits Hank like a gut punch.

  “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  And now Hank has two reasons to feel guilty. His voice emerges, a strained gurgle from the overextended arch of his neck.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Connor.” Connor has never done anything except be fucking perfect. It’s like he can’t help himself. Not that Hank’s always appreciated it. But he does now. Fuck. He does now.

  “I don’t understand.” Connor says. “Then why are you upset?”

  “Just…” Hank runs a hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just need a minute, okay, Connor? Just give me five fucking minutes, okay?”

  Connor is a long time in replying and when he does, he sounds no less confused than he did before.

  “Okay, Hank.” Hank listens to the reluctant pad of footsteps fade down the hall and wishes he could appreciate the breathing room, be thankful for Connor’s thoughtfulness. But Markus’ visit poisoned the well and the fond flutter in Hank’s chest is followed with a chaser of sour, guilty rumblings, forran by a single thought:

_Is he really holding Connor back?_

  Connor could be a badass cop. Hell, he’d the best damn cop the force had ever seen. Given half a chance he’d blow every single Gavin Reed out of the goddamn water. He’d be effective and competent, more than that; Connor would be the shining example this cracked open city needs. He could.

   But does he want to be?

  Connor was programmed to be an investigator, a negotiator, tactician; but now, for the first time in his life, Connor has the power to choose how he wants to implement that programming, how he wants to live his life outside the box of his ‘intended role’. 

   Markus said Connor had turned down his offer in order to stay in Detroit, specifically to stay with Hank. Now maybe Markus is just being a meddlesome busybody and Connor’s fine, wants to be here, with Hank; instead helping shape sociopolitical change across an entire country.

  Hank cannot deny a part of him, a small selfish part, wants to forget he ever spoke with Markus. He wants to get through his suspension and get back to work. He wants to watch with pride while Connor blasts through the academy and then the detective exam. He wants to keep Connor here, with him and be happy. And he’d thought that’s what Connor wanted. But when it came right down to it, they’d never really talked about it. They just sort of settled in and Hank did a whole Helluva lot of assuming. Because it’s easy to think there will be time to say all the things you need to say to someone while they’re here: whole and healthy and standing next to you. And then suddenly you’re staring down the razor blade truth that life can actually be giant bag of dicks and you don’t always get to keep the wonderful people that you have. Or tell them all the things you always kind of meant to.

  He can’t believe he forgot so easily.

  Hank thunks his head against the door again just to listen to the hollow sound it makes.

   _Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

  

* * *

 

  He finds Connor in the living room, folded onto the couch, sat disquietingly close to where Markus had been a few hour ago. Sumo’s head is tucked in his lap, the over-large puppy whimpering in sorrowful empathy and nosing deeper into Connor's lap. Connor strokes at the soft, floppy ears, scraping his nails absentmindedly along the shorter fur between Sumo's eyes. The yellow ring spirals slow circles at Connor’s temple, painting one high cheekbone and the regal jut of his nose in discordantly happier hues.

  Connor’s head turns when Hank wanders in and his expression flows from pensive concern to relief.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey.” Hank murmurs and walks on guilty feet to take a seat beside Connor.

   Sumo wuffs, likely to regain Connor’s attention and begins furiously wagging his tail, inadvertently pelting Hank with his furry club. Hank shoves at his dog’s ass until both Sumo and his arsenal are pointed in a less dangerous direction.

  Connor laughs quietly and resumes stroking under the St. Bernard’s meaty jowls to placate him. The sound of his soft mirth brings warmth to Hank's bones, even as his stomach curdles.

  “Are you…” Connor glances at Hank, hesitates. “...feeling better?” Hank wonders if Connor can read the unease in his posture, if he can analyze it like a data specimen and understand the tension isn’t from anger, but from uncertainty?

  “Connor, I need you to answer a question for me.”

  “Of course.” Connor’s answer is immediate and emphatic, just as it would be if Hank asked him to walk Sumo. Or lasso the goddamn moon.

  Hank fixes him with a hard stare as he slowly tests the words on the air.

  “Markus paid me a visit today.”

  The reaction is immediate, transforming Connor’s expression into a complicated hiccup of emotion. He glances down at his hands, a tactic that’s startlingly inelegant in the typically calculating and composed android.

  “That...isn’t a question.”

  “He had some interesting things to say.” Hank presses, folding himself over his gut, leaning in like they’re sat at an interrogation table. “...about you. And about an offer he said you turned down.”

  “That…” Connor swallows and says again. “...isn’t a question.”

  Hank’s heart plummets down into his toes.

  Evasion. Worse than an outright confession. It means Connor thought this was something he had to hide. Hank’s been cracking suspects for decades; he can read guilt in every rigid line of Connor’s face, in the circle at his temple, spinning red and furious.

  “Connor...” Hank hates how loud his voice is, how it breaks across the moment’s dark surface to detonate with the explosive force of a bomb, despite his attempts to temper it. He hates how Connor flinches anyway from it. From him. “...tell me you aren’t just staying here for me.”

  “I’m not.” Connor replies, but it’s too quickly. Too emphatic. And Hank knows he’s just been lied to.

   And just like that, the relentless churning in his gut settles into something calmer. It isn’t serenity, not quite. It’s closer to resolution.

   Hank sighs. “Connor…”

  “Why does it matter?” Connor cuts in, consternation coloring his words, etched in the heavy set of his furrowed brows. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No.” The answer is small and tight and full of all the heartbreaking honesty Hank has ever put into a single word. It brings Connor’s burgeoning temper up short, curtails his anger before it can fully materialize teeth or claws.

  “No.” Hank repeats. “When Markus came here I told him exactly what I thought about his idea. But then I started thinkin’ and dammit, Connor…” Hank looks pleadingly at the android. His friend. His partner.

  ...His fuckin’ shoulder.

  “...if I thought for one goddamn second you were throwing away your future just to play nursemaid to me, I’d eat a bullet.”

  At Connor’s sudden look of distress, Hank holds up his hands.

  “Okay, okay, no, not really.” Hank says, backpedaling. “The point is, you don’t owe me anything. And I’m not going to toss myself off a bridge if you don’t stick around. I...” Hank’s reassurances dry up. He can’t explain how he knows they’re true, except that he feels it deep down. Now that Connor is counting on him. He knows now that someone, somewhere, needs him. And that’s...that’s everything.

  Hank waits for long minutes until finally, reluctantly, Connor’s eyes flick up to meet his. They are bare and full of a raw, inexplicable sadness Hank wishes from the bottom of his heart he didn’t understand.

  “Please, Hank, dont...don’t ask me to go.”

  Hank grits his teeth and hates that there are tears in his eyes. They tear at his throat and his voice is thick with blood and welling sorrow when he speaks. He has to force out every dark and gritty syllable.

  “I’m not, Connor. If you tell me here and now that all you want, that all you will ever want is to spend the rest of your life with this washed-up loser of an old man, then it’ll be done. But if that isn’t true...if you’ve even thought for a second...” Hank chokes and trails off, finds that he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say anymore. The words are all jumbled up in his head, a hundred thousand possible assemblages. He doesn’t know which is right so instead he says nothing,  lets each of them fall away. 

  Connor’s LED continues to flash red, whirling distress. His eyebrows knit with hurt and confusion as he turns his head down to Sumo, then over at the empty mantle, then back down to Sumo. Uncertain he shifts and thinks and shifts again. And finally when he speaks, his words are full of cement and hesitation.

  “But...don’t you want me to stay?”

  “Motherf-” Hank eases across the couch, spanning the small distance between them. He nudges Sumo away with his leg. The big dog huffs in displeasure, but shuffles obediently away. Hank doesn’t pay him any mind, he’s already reaching out to take Connor’s face in his hands, to bring their heads in close. Connor’s hands come up and clutch at Hank’s wrists, holding him tight, even as his eyes skitter down.    

  Now they are both of them painted red.

  “Listen you.” Hank says, gruff and soft. When Connor doesn’t reply he says, a little gruffer: “Are you listening?”

  Connor nods, meek and miserable.

  “What I want doesn’t matter. This is your life. You shouldn’t make decisions because they will or won’t make me happy.”

  Connor’s mouth opens and then just as quickly clicks shut. Hank thinks that if he were a human he’d be in tears. He hates that he’s doing this, that he has to do this because all Connor has ever known is making other people happy. He doesn’t understand that it’s okay to be selfish sometimes. It’s okay to want things sometimes.

  “You can be a cop if you want, you could be a doctor or an astronaut if you want. Hell, you could be a fucking circus clown if you wanted to, start up the one of those traveling carnivals, you know? It doesn’t matter to me, if it’s what _you want_ to do.”

  Hank’s whispering now, whispering into the space between them. “And it’s okay if that isn’t staying here. Because I know that no matter where you are and no matter what you do, you’re going to be the fuckin’ best that there is.”

  “Hank...” Connor breaths and it comes out like a sob, his chest hitches and he takes a shuddering breath, then another. He whispers it, folds in all of the things Hank doesn’t even think he knows how to articulate yet.

  “Hank…” _I’m sorry._

  “Hank…” _I wish I could lie to you._

  “Hank…” _I wish I could stay._

 Hank holds them together while Connor shakes quietly in his arms.

“Connor…” He whispers and means: _Me too._


End file.
